


A Tale of Two Tiddies

by dancingloki



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: (which is based on a combination of two things:, A lot of introspection, I don't think it gets that explicit tho, M/M, and observations of the visual design of the movie), and then smooching at the end, interviews Winston Duke has given on the subject, let me know if I should bump it up to a M rating for some reason, plus some deep heartfelt conversation, some exposition & Jabari worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 03:05:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14155284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingloki/pseuds/dancingloki
Summary: The monumental task of managing Wakanda's new relationship with the outside world is weighing heavily on the young king's mind; he finds respite in his visits to Jabari lands, but without him realizing it, his friendship with M'Baku has been growing into something more.





	A Tale of Two Tiddies

**Author's Note:**

> I was gonna switch the title to something a little more dignified but my beta reader threatened to kill me if I changed it

T’Challa shivered in the cold, wrapping his robe tighter around his body as he strode along the mountain ridge. The few Jabari tribespeople he passed, going about their business, mostly ignored him, except at the most for a casual nod hello. They’d behaved the exact same way every time he’d come up here, in the ten months since his coronation and the chaos surrounding it. He tried to tell himself he was annoyed at the lack of respect, but…

Finally, he neared M’Baku’s throne room, only to find the man himself absent. Frowning, T’Challa ventured further into the mountain city in search of his friend. A passing guard seemed disgruntled at being interrupted, but pointed him in the right way; he memorized her directions and set off.

The course she laid out took him through the subterranean passages that linked some of the different sections of their main city together, in those parts of the mountain where through was easier than over. T’Challa took the opportunity to examine their lighting system more closely; panels of what looked like wood cunningly integrated into the rock face, with no visible power source. The light they emitted was warm and natural and undirected, filling the space in a way that made T’Challa half-expect to pass an open window around each corner, and with none of the sickly or eerie qualities usually associated with bioluminescence.

The overall effect reminded him keenly of M’Baku’s disgust with the direction Shuri was leading Wakanda’s technological advancements. After spending time among the Jabari and seeing more of their way of life, T’Challa felt he understood his contempt—not to say that he agreed with it, of course, but at least he had a sense of where M’Baku was coming from. So much of Wakandan tech was...it was flashy, dramatic, and obvious, in a way the Jabari seemed to scorn. Part of that was doubtless due to Shuri’s youth and energy, as M’Baku had accused, but it also flowed from the attitudes of Wakandan society, from their philosophy towards life. In contrast, the Jabari seemed to put a great deal of effort into giving their advancements a natural subtlety; integrating them back into their sources in such a way that it was easy to convince yourself that such tech had simply grown on its own, with no engineer or designer but Hanuman himself, a natural quality of the natural world. Perhaps that approach explained the strange seeming inconsistencies in their progress which had struck T’Challa on his first _intentional_ visit to Jabari lands. Their transportation tech was almost non-existent, for example, yet their medical assistive tech surpassed Wakanda’s. He’d met a fisherman pulling a wheeled cart—actual physical _wheels_ , touching the _ground_ —whose right hand was a prosthetic formed out of some flexible, dark-grained ‘living’ wood, so detailed and so dextrous it was barely distinguishable from his flesh hand. One could almost believe it had grown in that shape of its own accord from a limb of a great Jabari tree, and simply been spliced and grafted to the man’s arm with no more effort than a flowering bough.

 _That does seem to return and return as the source of our differences_ , T’Challa thought to himself as he walked, shivering a little less now that he was sheltered from the wind. _Vibranium must be sought for, mined and processed by human hands before we can use it safely; a Jabari tree grows on its own and for its own purposes, and all without our interference. Each approach has value—we could accomplish so much more if we worked together and learned from each other_.

Lost in these musings, T’Challa barely noticed the time pass as he worked his way through the city. Just as the guard had said he would, he found M’Baku with a Jabari elder poring over one of their terraced alcove gardens, tucked into a crag in the side of the mountain. They glanced up as he entered, and M’Baku pointedly turned back to finish his conversation without even acknowledging him. T’Challa hid a smile; in spite of the respect that had grown between them, M’Baku remained as stubbornly arrogant and self-assured as he had been on Challenge Day.

At length, they finished their talk; the elder bowed to his lord and turned back to his work. M’Baku now nodded amiably to T’Challa, leading the way back to his personal quarters. Like several of the other times T’Challa had come to see him, he was dressed simply under his fur wraps, his armor foregone in favor of a smooth brown tunic of some soft, tightly-woven fabric that fell to his mid-thighs.

“Is something wrong?” T’Challa asked, gesturing back behind them. M’Baku waved him off.

“A mold infesting some of the crops. Nothing we haven’t dealt with before.” He pushed open the polished door to his bedchamber, a single solid piece four feet wide; T’Challa followed him in. “So, what brings you to Jabari lands today, little king?”

T’Challa refused to rise to the bait. “I w-wanted to take your counsel on—” the rest of his sentence was swallowed up in a shudder that wracked his whole body.

M’Baku snorted contemptuously. “Lowlanders,” he grunted, shaking his head. “Such weakness.” T’Challa opened his mouth to retort, only to be hit in the face with a wadded-up blanket. By the time he had extricated himself and his dignity from its folds, M’Baku was lounging on a seat, knees spread wide, and smirking at him.

“It was thirty-five degrees1 by midmorning in the city center today,” T’Challa informed him, tucking the blanket primly around his shoulders.

“The mountain does not care! Summer does not touch us here.”

Afternoon sun streamed in through a window hewn in the rock wall, and T’Challa bit down on his irritation. “I did not come here for an argument,” he said, as calmly as he could manage.

“Then why did you come?” M’Baku demanded. “And don’t tell me it was to ask my counsel on one of your exchange programs, because I know that is a lie. You never take my advice, anyway.”

“Because your advice almost always involves hitting someone.”

“You won’t know if it will work until you try it.”

Exasperated, T’Challa shot him a long-suffering glare, only to be surprised by the broad smile on M’Baku’s face and the mischief in his eyes. In spite of himself, he couldn’t help but smile back.

“Truthfully,” he admitted, strolling over to look out the window at the beautiful panorama below, “I think I simply wanted to rest.”

“The mountain can be peaceful,” M’Baku said casually, resettling himself and leaning back in his seat. “And you have no responsibilities, since you are not king here.”

“Not—” T’Challa turned, drawing himself up indignantly. “The Jabari are also my people, M’Baku.”

“Eh.” M’Baku shrugged, making a face.

“Yes, you are,” T’Challa insisted, becoming angry. “The Jabari may live separately, but you are still part of Wakanda.”

“Only sort of.” M’Baku waved a hand at him dismissively. “We have our own laws, keep our own customs. And nobody here bows to you or obeys your commands, I’m surprised you didn’t notice that.”

“It caught my attention, but…”

“But what?” M’Baku prompted when T’Challa trailed off.

He shrugged, embarrassed. “The Jabari are an independent people, I thought it must take some time before they—”

M’Baku’s yawn was loud and theatrical. “A king should be a better liar,” he informed T’Challa, feigning boredom.

After a moment’s struggle, he gave up and confessed: “Between Shuri and Okoye, I barely get any respect in my own palace, I had no reason to think it would be different here.”

With a loud, booming laugh, M’Baku levered himself up from his seat, striding across the room to throw his broad arm around T’Challa’s shoulders. Even through the heavy blanket, T’Challa felt his skin spark at his touch. M’Baku was saying something—mocking him, no doubt—but his words were lost to the air, swallowed up in fascination at the movement of his lips, intoxication at the sudden, unexpected closeness of his powerful body pressed up against T’Challa’s side.

Acting on impulse, he stretched up and pressed their mouths together, in a gentle, brief kiss.

M’Baku froze, completely still, for a long breath. Then, gingerly, he pulled his arm back away, stepping backwards to put space between them. For several long moments, they stared at each other; T’Challa’s heart was beating wildly in his chest. He watched M’Baku’s face closely for any reaction; but the gregarious man, normally so transparent and expressive, was now unreadable, his face completely blank.

Finally, when T’Challa thought he might die of the suspense, he spoke.

“What of Nakia?” he asked, his voice steady and calm. “Does she know you have been coming here? I know you two are together.”

“Nakia? Oh—no, I—” T’Challa cleared his throat, flustered, and tried to organize his thoughts. “She and I have not been together for some time. We tried for a while, a few months after I became king, but separated again after that.”

M’Baku seemed to relax at this revelation, his defenses lowering. “Why? What happened?”

T’Challa sighed, wandering over to lean against the windowsill, feeling the wind push against his back. “At the close of the day, Nakia does not want to be Queen. I had hoped that over time she would change her mind, but…” He shook his head. “The time we spent together convinced us both that her feelings will never move. And as long as she feels that way, there will always be a barrier between us—a limit on how close we could become. We still care deeply for each other—we always will, I think—but our paths are taking us in different directions. She will not choose to be queen, and I cannot stop being king.”

“Except here,” M’Baku reminded him, a hint of amusement in his deep, resonant voice.

T’Challa ignored that. “She’s buried herself in her work. She seems happy; she is accomplishing great things, and has all the freedom she wishes, which the throne would take away.”

“And what freedom has it taken away from you?”

T’Challa turned his back quickly, before M’Baku could see his expression. “I have prepared my entire life to be king,” he said, as soon as he could trust his voice to remain steady.

“That is not an answer to my question.”

“Perhaps…” T’Challa sighed heavily. “Would you think less of me if I confessed that, in some ways, I have been finding the burdens of rule more than I expected?”

“I don’t think much of you to begin with,” M’Baku informed him, then laughed uproariously at the indignant outrage on T’Challa’s face when he whipped around to glare at him. When he’d gotten his mirth under control, he continued, “You take yourself too seriously. Your country thrives, your people flourish; don’t be so hard on yourself.”

Touched, T’Challa came away from the window; M’Baku reclaimed his chair, while T’Challa took a seat on the bed nearby. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and feeling suddenly too exhausted for words. M’Baku waited patiently while he sat and breathed in the stillness of the mountain.

“I am afraid,” he said at last. “I am afraid of repeating my father’s mistakes—or that my own mistakes will be worse than his. I _believe_ that we are doing what is right, by reaching out to the rest of the world, but I am _afraid_ that I am wrong, that I have undone thousands of years of tradition only to cause the destruction of all that we have. And I cannot share that fear with anyone, because if the king is not confident in his own policies, his people will lose trust in him, and his country will tear itself apart with its doubt.”

He watched M’Baku sidelong from the corner of his eye as he thought over what T’Challa had said, lips pursed out in concentration.

“Your father’s mistakes almost destroyed the whole country in less than two days,” he said at length. “I doubt you could do _worse_.”

“M’Baku,” T’Challa began to reproach him.

“What do you want me to say?” M’Baku exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “That you _could_ do worse?”

“I _wanted_ reassurance.”

“And you came to _me?_ ”

In spite of himself, T’Challa burst into laughter—the first real laugh he’d had in what felt like months. “That was foolish,” he admitted, as M’Baku grinned in triumph. “Truthfully...I think you are right.”

“I am always right,” M’Baku informed him. “About which thing?”

T’Challa rolled his eyes. “About why I come here. Everywhere I walk in the rest of Wakanda, I am seen—I must always be careful, must say and do the right things. And everywhere I go in the rest of the world, I am known; I must represent my country there as her king. There is nowhere else but here where I can simply be T’Challa.”

M’Baku met his eyes steadily, an earnest and steadfast gaze that bathed him in understanding, and T’Challa felt a knot deep in his chest come undone. With a barely-audible grunt, he levered himself up from his chair, and crossed the room to sit next to him on the bed. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, T’Challa thought he was about to embrace him, but instead he flopped carelessly down onto his back, letting his heels sprawl out onto the floor.

“The Jabari don’t have those kinds of hang-ups,” he told the ceiling, playing lightly with his fingertips over T’Challa’s back, his touch just barely tangible through the thick blanket. “We are much more sensible than your people—mine never expect me to be anything other than what I am. When I have reservations about a course of action, I am honest, and they respect me for it. Thus, if I ever do make a mistake—” (T’Challa scoffed audibly and M’Baku ignored him) “—unlikely as that may be, don’t you think they would be more comforted to know that I always carefully consider my decisions? Hiding your doubts is only reassuring until the first time you are shown to be wrong. Then you just seem foolhardy.”

T’Challa hummed to himself, turning over M’Baku’s words in his mind. “There is wisdom in what you say,” he admitted. “Maybe I _should_ take your advice more often.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it. I don’t take those council meetings very seriously.”2

Before he could decide whether to laugh or scold, T’Challa’s train of thought was interrupted by a broad hand seizing a fold of his clothes, and he was pulled unceremoniously down onto M’Baku’s well-muscled chest. His other hand slipped under the blanket and wrapped around the small of T’Challa’s back, drawing him close into a warm embrace. T’Challa thrust aside all other concerns in favor of pressing himself down and forward against M’Baku’s body, eliminating the last of the space between them, stretching forward to search for the taste of his mouth.

Their second kiss was sweeter than the first, but laced with a hint of a challenge in the intensity and passion of M’Baku’s touch, that promised a heat to rival the scorching sun of the plains. T’Challa felt a shiver run through his body that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold when M’Baku suddenly rolled, thick arm pushing them over onto their sides, face-to-face with T’Challa’s back against the wall.

“Are you remembering the last time I had my arms around you?” M’Baku murmured low, tracing down T’Challa’s neck with his lips.

Minding M’Baku’s counsel, he didn’t bother to try keeping the tremors and gasps from his voice when he answered. “I think this challenge might end a little differently.”

His low laugh rumbled through M’Baku’s trunk as he worked open the front of T’Challa’s robe to bare his chest. “You think you will be the one to yield this time?”

“I’m open to the possibility.”

M’Baku claimed his mouth again, pulling his robe down over his shoulders to bunch around his waist. “So this is how the Black Panther does diplomacy,” he said between swift kisses. “I didn’t expect you to go this far to get us back down from the mountains. You mean to try uniting the kingdoms?”

“Let’s try uniting our bodies and see where we go from there,” T’Challa suggested, and for once M’Baku was only too happy to agree.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Degrees celsius, Wakanda is on the metric system
> 
> 2 M'Baku is highkey only in it for the Drama


End file.
